


Harry Potter and the Hexenmeister's Rock

by TheDistantDusk



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Amish setting, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Amish AU, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-12
Updated: 2018-11-02
Packaged: 2019-07-30 01:12:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16276130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheDistantDusk/pseuds/TheDistantDusk
Summary: "Yer Amish, Harry."





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: I have a thousand WiPs (I know, I know), but I randomly remembered that my friend and I wrote this crackfic a long time ago. So thank you, Jo-Jo, for allowing me to post this on this site. 
> 
> I should note that there is literally nothing serious or accurate about any part of this story. No offense is intended.

A skinny, bespectacled preteen laid awake and blinked at the ceiling. He was comfortable yet distraught in his tiny cupboard under the stairs, the place he'd called home for as long as he could remember. His name was Harry, he was about to turn 11, and he was the pure embodiment of the word  _miserable_...but not for reasons that you might expect.

Harry was  _not_ a normal boy.

For starters, he didn't live with his parents; he resided with his Aunt Petunia, his Uncle Vernon, and his pleasant, congenial cousin Dudley. In everyone's eyes (except for Harry's), the Dursleys were supportive surrogate parents who had always viewed Harry as a second son. Throughout his life, they encouraged him to pursue the same activities and extracurriculars as Dudley, from t-ball to Boy Scouts. However, it was soon apparent that Harry (unlike Dudley) was not a typical child.

While Dudley enjoyed playing soccer and games on his PlayStation, Harry much preferred simpler activities, such as cross-stitching and making cornhusk dolls. Harry's most traumatic childhood experience had occurred at a Chuck E. Cheese when he was six, although not due to understandable reasons, such as fear over the giant animatronic creatures. Instead, Harry had simply seen the  _lights_  and heard the  _music_ inside the venue, and that had sent him skyrocketing over the edge.

While screaming in a pathetic little ball outside on the pavement, Harry had sobbed, "The kids get  **TICKETS!**  WHAT DID THEY DO TO EARN THAT REWARD? Were any fields plowed today? Any cows milked? NO!"

Whenever questioned about her nephew's odd behavior, Petunia Dursley responded by saying, "You know, not  _every_  boy is interested in playing rough! And besides, gay marriage is legal now, so…"

Having decided that Harry's needs were not going to be met in conventional ways, Vernon and Petunia had focused all of their energy on honing Harry's "talents" instead. So far, his talents included singing "Pop Goes the Weasel" repeatedly at a high volume, and riding a bike. The last one was achieved with about 40% accuracy, depending on the day.

Yes...it was true. Harry simply did  _not_  fit in, and he detested his aunt and uncle for forcing him to try. In fact, he frequently enjoyed envisioning himself as a raft, bobbing listlessly in an electronic sea of broken smart phones. During these fantasies, he would wrap his arms around his legs, rock back and forth, and loudly cry, "WHAT IS A TWEET?"

These fantasies were some of Harry's fondest memories.

As Harry gazed at the ceiling, lost in pleasant recollections, his little spider friend Jebediah crawled daintily along the rafters. Whenever anyone asked Harry about his friends, he casually mentioned Jebediah and all of the fun times they had together. This was less pathetic than admitting that he didn't have any, but things  _did_  get awkward when Harry explained that he and Jebediah's favorite past time was playing a game called Who Will Bite Me?

Harry glanced over at a picture of his mum and dad that sat beneath Jebediah's rafter. They were wearing conservative black attire and head coverings. Neither was smiling as they stared glumly ahead, brows furrowed in intense concentration, as if they had to poop very badly but knew a bathroom was miles away. His mother's attractive bonnet and his father's striking top hat were presumably part of their mandatory gang getups.

To Harry, they embodied pure happiness. Unfortunately, Harry only had this picture to remember them by, as they had been killed when Harry was a mere baby.

You see, Harry had been raised by his aunt and uncle because his parents were murdered in a gang shooting. Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon often reminded him that this was the reality of living in England (and literally nowhere else in the world): Sometimes, you just die in random gun violence!

Harry had long-since accepted that having absent parents meant his life would forever be an empty black tunnel, one filled with resonating technological noises like the familiar cacophony of a dial-up internet connection and the ringtone everyone thinks of when they think of ringtones.

Harry sighed and turned over on his floor-bed, the one he'd insisted on inhabiting since early childhood. He'd been offered a "real bed" in a "real room" so many times that Vernon and Petunia had lost count, but it was of no use. No matter how many precautions his relatives had put in place to keep Harry in an actual room, his poor aunt and uncle had always arisen in the morning to find him sleeping under the stairs.

Harry sighed and closed his eyes, hoping that sleep would overtake him before he had to think too much about what the hell a coin was.

* * *

However, Harry awoke the next day - and on his eleventh birthday, no less - to find that things were not going according to his plan.

At 4:00 AM (Harry's favorite time to rise for the day), his nightmarishly well-intentioned aunt and uncle knocked on his cupboard to inform him that they'd be taking him to a beach resort.

The grins plastered across their faces suggested they assumed that Harry was a normal preteen; as such, they figured he'd enjoy a week frolicking in the brisk waters of the North Sea, torturing seagulls, and letting the coy British sun caramelize his rice paper skin.

But clearly they should have saved their goddamn money, because Harry spent the whole time in praying in the timeshare's broom closet.

"Lord," he intoned, his elbows propped on a shelf holding bottles of Clorox, Windex, and mildew spray. "Please forgive my Aunt Petunia, Uncle Vernon, and Cousin Dudley this week, as they shamelessly bare their bodies in the daylight, then fasten their trousers with buttons. The ocean doth erode a man's spirit as well as the shore."

His boyish tenor crescendoed at this last phrase, reverberating throughout the small enclosed space and making Jebediah tremble at Harry's breast. The spider had absconded up Harry's shirt before the family left for their vacation and stayed perched on his left nipple for comfort and support.

"Love?" Aunt Petunia's voice came muffled through the door. "Come on out, we've got your birthday cake ready! Just the way you like it."

 _Just the way Harry liked it_  was plain. No frosting, no vanilla flavor, just a "humble baked dessert looking to do the Lord's work". Initially, he asked his aunt to bake "shoofly cake", but Mrs. Dursley had no idea what that was, and with a sigh, Harry had agreed to this second choice.

The Dursleys were gathered around the table, waiting for Harry to join them. Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia wore matching uncertain smiles while Dudley looked as though he would much rather be doing anything else, like pilates or time in a North Korean labor camp. When Harry sat down, the unadorned golden discus of god-fearing cake in front of him, the family knew much better than to start singing. Instead, they all joined hands and lowered their heads.

Harry closed his eyes and said one of his favorite prayers: "O Great and Glorious Creator of the Universe, we are not worthy of the food you give us to eat or the air you give us to breath, but we thank thee for staying thine's smiting hand yet another day. Amen."

"Amen," the Dursleys echoed uncomfortably.

"Sure you don't want to blow out any candles, Harry?" Aunt Petunia asked.

Harry groaned like a dad dealing with a terrible kid that ruined his best running shoes. "I told you, candles lit for an individual is a form of idolatry."

"Oh," she said. "Right."

The family began to eat the cake. It was like buttered toast in cake form and when Harry put it in his now 11-year-old mouth, he felt closer to who he truly was.

Suddenly, the door was punished by an unknown assailant.

_THUD! THUD! THUD!_

Everything in the timeshare shook - the white wicker coffee table, the wood-paneled appliances from the 80s, the plates and forks the family was trying to eat Harry's cake with. Aunt Petunia cried out as a garishly-colored painting of a seal crashed to the floor. "Mr. Wiggles!"

When the thudding stopped, everyone sat frozen in shock. After a stretch of silence, Dudley voiced everyone's thoughts: "What in the hickety-heck was  _that_?"

 _THUD! THUD! THUD!_ This time, the earthquake was followed by angry grumblings in what sounded like German.

"Shit," Dudley said again. " _It's Nazis_."

"Young man - " Uncle Vernon began to admonish, though secretly he, too, was afraid it was unholy golem of Nazis that had snuffed out his half-Jewish blood and were here to take him and his son away to unspeakable horrors. It was honestly the most logical conclusion he could have drawn at the time.

However, before he could get any further, the front door shot off its hinges, rocketing into the living room and leaving a cloud of dust and splinters in its wake.

A giant beard attached to two enormous tree stumps stood in the doorframe.

"WHERE IS BROTHER POTTER?!" it boomed.

As Harry stared at the looming creature before him, he was shocked to realize that he had managed to glance at this man's body for a full 30 seconds without going to his mental happy place - the Smartphone Sea.

Harry frankly couldn't remember the last time he'd been able to take a prolonged glance at a fellow human being without somehow drifting off to that magical locale where he could merrily bob between a corroded Nexus 6 and a factory-locked iPhone 3. This had become a particularly unfortunate habit in school, as Harry would miss entire lessons if a teacher chose to wear some shameful sandals or a scandalous knee-length sundress.

After a sufficiently awkward amount of time, Dudley broke the silence by scurrying to his feet and bellowing, "HEIL HITLER!"

"Dudley," murmured Vernon disapprovingly, glaring at his son who had chosen to remain stoic in a standing Nazi salute. It was not lost on him that his son had willfully chosen to embody the same evil forces that had eliminated most of his extended family. Vernon placed his head in his hands and sighed deeply.

But the large man ignored all of this and again repeated, "WHERE IS BROTHER POTTER?"

As Harry glanced at the man, an odd sense of familiarity crept over him. The closest thing he could compare it to was a sensation he'd had a few weeks ago when he spilled a bowl of soup on his pants; as Harry had felt the noodle-y warmth spread through his jeans, he'd been instantly reminded of the time he pissed himself in first grade during his recorder concert, an oddly pleasurable memory that he had long-since forgotten.

Seeing this large man was exactly like that, but Harry desperately hoped  _this_  experience would come without the lifelong need to wear child-sized diapers to any event that could potentially cause even vague amounts of anxiety.

Dry as a bone - and with a voice that Harry himself didn't even recognize - he stared at the man and replied "I...I think I'm who you're looking for!"

The large man's face split into an enormous grin and he took two steps forward, grasping Harry's clammy little hand and shaking his entire body with the force of his handshake.

"It's so good ter see ya, Brother Potter. My name is Brother Hagrid, and I've been sent ter rescue ya from these depraved English folk!"

At this, Aunt Petunia, leapt to her feet, her pink hair curlers bouncing.

"I'll have you know," she snapped, her face contorted like a baby eating a lemon, "That we are not  _depraved_  English folk. My father is  _directly_  related to Henry VIII and on my mother's side, we believe that-"

But before she could continue to spew the bullshit  _my-family-is-so-famous_  nonsense that everyone - regardless of lineage - is somehow convinced to be true, her mouth was smothered by a gigantic hand.

"I'm not talking about  _English_  English, you  _kauptdoof_! I'm talking about English, as in non-Amish. As in, non-holy," said Hagrid, clearly annoyed.

Aunt Petunia receded slightly, put her head down and muttered, "Oh! Yeah, no, that makes a lot more sense. Sorry."

"A..Amish?" Harry asked quietly, still shaking from the giant's handshake.

"Yes," Brother Hagrid replied, whipping around quickly and looking confused. "Ya know...like yer mom and dad? And yer whole family?"

Harry just shrugged apologetically and glanced at Dudley, who was now sweating at the brow and grunting from the exertion of holding his hand raised in the Hitler salute.

"Ya mean," said Hagrid, turning to face the Dursleys once again, "...that this boy here knows  _nothin'_  of his heritage? Knows  _nothin'_  of the Amish Mafia that mercilessly killed Lily and James Potter, the greatest Amish couple that ever lived?"

Vernon had been staring into space and imagining Dudley as an extremely incompetent SS officer, but Brother Hagrid's booming voice shook him awake from his reverie.

"Oh, yeah,  _that_ ," said Vernon, yawning, "Honestly, we always just thought that shit was weird."

"Yeah," Petunia elaborated, returning to her seat on the couch, "My mother was always  _oddly_ supportive of her 11-year-old daughter's choice to marry an Amish dude and run off to America with him. Personally I never really got on board with that, cause I really enjoy having things like phones and electricity."

Vernon folded his arms over his chest and nodded in agreement. He opened his mouth as if to say something, but Petunia plowed on.

"Plus," she said, starting to laugh, "I don't know who I'd  _be_ today if I hadn't gotten to experience those slutty college years,  _amiright_?"

At this, Petunia desperately glanced around the room for someone -  _anyone_ \- to justify those experiences.

Unfortunately, she was only was met with dead stares from the men in her midst, and Vernon made a small noise in the back of his throat. This was quickly followed by a strained utterance of, "You...you said I was your first!"

But Harry and Hagrid had no fucking patience for any of this; the Dursleys had gotten on their respective last nerves the second they mentioned electricity.

Hagrid rolled the giant glassy globes in his skull that served as his eyes and looked back at Harry. His gaze was fond, akin to how a grandma looks over at her favorite collectible china dachshund.

When he spoke again, his voice was tender.

"Yer  _Amish_ , Harry."


	2. Chapter 2

Harry just stared as the giant’s lips forever changed his perception on who he was.

“Me?” he said.

Hagrid nodded his gigantic, hairy head.

“Huh,” Harry said. Then after a moment:  “What does it mean, to be Amish?”

“What does it mean!” Hagrid flailed his tree-trunk-sized arms in the air. “Why, it means to be a member of the holiest order of mortal beings that still walk this Earth. It means knowing closeness to God through tilling fields, castrating goats, and isolating yourself from the outside world.  It means --“

“No electricty,” Aunt Petunia reiterated.

“No cars,” chimed Uncle Vernon.

“No TV or video games or -- “ Dudley started.

Harry’s eyes lit up. The flush of life suddenly sprung beneath his waxy shut-in’s pallor. “Or cellphones?”

Hagrid scowled. “Ach, _especially_ not cellphones! They are explicitly prohibited by the _Ordnung_. Along with buttons, Chinese carryout, music, mixing salt and pepper, Flamin’ Hot Cheetos, running water, defecating indoors, Bob Saget’s standup, dancing, and social security.”

Harry mouth hung open. Could such a perfect society exist? “Is there farmwork to be done? Tables to be made? Roofs and fences to be mended?”

Hagrid’s laugh boomed throughout the small condo, shaking tableware and making all three Dursleys winced like tired drunks. “Always. It never ends.”

Harry’s bottle-green eyes filled with tears. He started laughing as well, only his chortles were high-pitched and hysterical, the chortle of a boy who had just been pardoned a mainstream existence in favor of one fraught with restrictions and restraints. In other words, every preteen boy’s fantasy come to life.

Hagrid’s expression shifted from gleeful amusement to heartfelt concern and pity. He shot another dirty look at Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon before getting down on one knee and addressing Harry gently.

“I’m here to take you back, Harry,” he said. “Yer 11 years old now. Practically a man. Soon, ya’ll be taking a wife. But how can you do that until ya’ve learned how to be Good Amish? Ya gotta learn how to raise a barn and kill a chicken and make a rocking chair out of cow bones. I’ve found a good family for ya stay with while ya learn our ways from the very best: Bishop Dumbledore, and Frau McGonagall, our school teacher.”

“Oh,” the bespectacled waif gasped, now breathless with joy. “That sounds _wonderful._ ” But then he remembered his aunt, uncle, and cousin standing behind him and their disapproving looks throughout this entire interaction. “But I don’t know if my aunt and uncle would let—“

“Have a wonderful trip, Harry!” Aunt Petunia said chipperly.

“Be sure to write!” said Uncle Vernon, shaking his hand.

“Do you need help packing?” Dudley offered, uncharacteristically.

So Harry gathered his scant belongings (a wide-brimmed straw hat, a navy dress shirt, pants made from a burlap sack, and a piece of rope) and joined Hagrid in his enormous black buggy parked outside. The carriage was attached to two beautiful Clydesdale horses, who pawed their front hooves at the ground and snorted at Harry in welcome. Jebediah crawled out from under Harry’s shirt and sat on his shoulder, pleased his master’s day had finally arrived.  
  
As they rode off into the sunset, Harry’s mind began to wander as he imagined the phenomenal possibilities that awaited him in his new life. The young lad knew the basics, but he still had so many questions. Did being Amish mean that he would get to explore his most fervent desires, such as sitting in silence for long periods of time? Would the Amish life enable Harry to fulfill his lifelong dream of treating animals as _animals_ , dammit, because they should never have been domesticated in the first place? Only time would tell.

Harry was so caught up in his own fantasies that he didn’t notice the buggy approaching an actual road with actual cars. Hagrid hummed merrily as he merged into oncoming traffic, his horses whinnying in fear. For the first time in Harry’s life, he took cues from an adult in his presence, and chose not to irrationally freak out over the legitimate danger in his midst.

Unfortunately, Harry had chosen the worst possible time to ignore his instincts, and he and Hagrid were hit sidelong by a car going 15 mph.

* * *

Harry blinked once, twice, his eyes adjusting to the brightness around him. His head felt heavy as he pieced his memories together; the last thing he recalled was a middle aged woman in a turquoise convertible screaming “What the FUCK are you doing on the highway?” as she gently rolled into their buggy, causing (presumably) cataclysmic damage.

Harry figured he was probably lucky to be alive.

He glanced around at the disgusting sterility and complete disregard for nature that surrounded him, and realized— with a sense of crushing defeat— that he was in a hospital.

“Ah, yer awake!” boomed a voice on the other side of the white-paneled room. Hagrid strode towards Harry in two giant steps, hitting his head on the ceiling-mounted TV on his way over. “Good, we got places to be, things ter do!”

The volume of Hagrid’s voice resonated in Harry’s ears, making his headache even worse; the giant certainly _sounded_ cheerful, but Harry wanted the truth.

“Hagrid,” said Harry weakly, “Will I make it? Give it to me straight!” Tears began streaming down Harry’s face as he considered how incredibly brave he was in the face of his own demise.

“M-make it? OH, you mean from the accident?” Hagrid laughed, his body rumbling. “Harry, all ye got from that was three bruises! Ye’ve been unconscious cause I didn’t feel like dealing with ye on the plane, so I slipped a bunch of Benadryl in yer water canteen. It worked like a charm too— ye slept all the way across the ocean!”

“Then...why am I in a hospital?” Harry asked, still confused.  

“Cause I didn’t have money for hotel, and it’s a lot of work draggin’ dead weight into a carriage. I figured this way I could admit you into the ER, claim you were in a coma, and make some doctor feel like she performed a miracle and saved yer life!”

But they didn’t have time for any of that, because a nurse came by the room, rolled her eyes and said, “Yeah it’s about time. Please get out of here, we have legitimate illnesses we need to treat.”

“Right-o!” said Hagrid merrily, grabbing Harry’s arm and striding out of the room. “Good thing we don’t have to pay for none of this— I’m so glad ye adopted socialized medicine!”

Hagrid’s laughter drowned out the nurse’s perplexed response of, “...you know that’s now how that works, right?”

Hagrid quickly led Harry through the floors of the hospital, finally stepping through the automatic doors and into the fresh sunlight.

He took a deep breath, surveyed his cement parking lot surroundings and said, “Ye made it, Harry. Yer in America now.”

Harry couldn’t contain his glee over being in the land of his heritage— the land where he truly belonged! He didn’t even acknowledge the hateful glares as Hagrid untethered the horses and buggy from the hospital’s bike rack. The young boy breathed in the fresh American air as they trotted out of the hospital parking lot. To him, the air smelled of rediscovered dreams, newfound hopes, and, of course, crippling obesity.

Still exhausted from being dosed on Benadryl, Harry hoped that Hagrid would make wiser traffic decisions this time as the gentle rocking of the buggy lulled him to sleep.

When Harry awoke, he discovered that they were at a small roadside shop. Other horses and buggies were tethered outside; Harry took this as a good sign.

“Hagrid,” said Harry yawning and stretching, “Where are we?”

Hagrid’s laughter boomed through the buggy and shook the leather reins in his hands. The horses haughtily turned at the noise, their large white snouts sniffing the air in confusion. Harry narrowed his eyes at them and thought _Know. Your. Place._

“Ya didn’t think I’d let ye go off ter Lancaster without some supplies, did ya, Harry?” asked Hagrid jovially as he hopped out of the buggy, shaking the ground in his wake. “You’d be the laughing stock of the _Ordnung_ if you came without, say, yer own woodworkin’ tools!”

“But!” Harry said, his preteen face falling in sadness, “I...I didn’t think to ask for money!”

He was reminded of an incident in elementary school in which the Dursleys had explained the basics of receiving a weekly allowance. Dudley had jumped at the chance to receive money for doing literally nothing other than being 8, but Harry had described the concept as “akin to murder and enslavement of the highest degree.” Vernon and Petunia had looked at each other, sighed, and just agreed to pay for whatever the hell Harry wanted.

This ended up being a very financially wise decision, because Harry could occupy himself for hours with a game called “Kill the Nonbeliever”; the only required props were three ears of corn.

“What, ya think yer parents left yer with _nothin_ ’?” Hagrid asked, shaking his head in disbelief. Harry shrugged and jumped down from the buggy as well. He couldn’t imagine his parents being particularly wealthy, but then again, he had no memory of them.

Hagrid walked around to the back of the buggy and removed a large burlap sack. He deftly thrust the bag in Harry’s hands, as if he didn’t particularly trust his own self-control over the items inside. Curious, Harry unraveled the string and glanced down at a basket, an apron, three pots, and a wooden spoon.

“Yer _rich_ , Harry,” said Hagrid sagely, nodding his head, “Ya know how many Amish families would pray in repentance over considering touching even _one_ of those items? When we get to Lancaster we can put them in the _Ordnung_ bank, but until then, we got some business to do.”

He looked Harry up and down, taking his disheveled hair, his burlap-sack pants, his worn and tattered shirt that, while pretty plain, had far too many buttons.

Hagrid chuckled. “Look at those buttons on yer sleeves! What are ya, a gigolo?”

Harry looked confused while Hagrid slapped his knee at his own joke. “What?”

“Never you mind.” He patted his young charge on the back. “We need to get you some new clothes. So, first stop: Malkin’s Plain Clothes for All Occasions.”

They entered the shop, greeted by the chime of teeny bell fastened to the top of the door. Inside, there were neatly-arranged racks of solemn-colored clothing— trousers, suspenders, collared shirts, and shapeless dresses — all awash in the gentle, oily glow of kerosene lights overhead. Towards the back of the shop, there was a counter that held an old-fashioned cash register and a little row of mirrors, in front of which some people were being measured and fitted for new garments.  

Harry was soothed by the lack of bright colors and patterns of the clothing on the racks. He'd had to stop shopping with Aunt Petunia after an outburst in Selfridges. He'd started hyperventilating while walking past the makeup department, and things had only escalated at the intimates and the men’s formal (“a man who wears silk about his neck is wearing a noose that will drop him to the depths of Hell!”) before a bright orange dress set him over the edge completely.

Store security had been forced to escort the family out the door when Harry’d begun shrieking about the “unholy stimulation of the senses” and “bared calves!"

An elderly gentleman in a dark brown shirt and suspenders sidled up to the door, a welcoming smile perched above his long salt-and-pepper beard.

“Welcome to Malkin’s Plain Clothes for All Occasions! What can I help you find today?”

“We need to get some clothes for the boy,” Hagrid replied, removing his hat. “Some trousers and shirts — some for the day-to-day field-tilling and animal slaughter, and a set for Sunday apparel. A pair of suspenders, a winter hat, a summer hat and some sturdy footwear. Basically, the works. We’re talking full Amish makeover here.”

The man was nodding, when suddenly, he narrowed his eyes at Harry, studying his features. “Say… this wouldn’t be the son of James and Lily now, would it?”

Hagrid looked cautiously around the store, before murmuring: “It tis, brother, but keep this information close to thine breast. We don’t want too much attention drawn to the young lad.”

A look of awe, then understanding passed over the man’s features as he nodded. “ _Ja_.” He gestured for Harry to join those being measured in front of the mirrors. “This way, young man. My wife will be with you in just a moment.”

Before Harry could wonder at the full meaning of this interaction, he was given a gentle but firm push in the direction of the mirrors, where a woman in a navy blue dress and apron was sticking pins in the sleeves of a delicate creature clad in black. At first, Harry thought it was a beautiful, tiny middle aged woman with flaxen blonde hair cropped in that “may I speak to the manager?” haircut and lips like a fresh garden tulip.

His heart went aflutter, even though he staunchly disapproved of a woman in pants.

But then he realized this woman was actually a boy around his age.

“Careful with those pins,” he admonished the woman in a voice like a plow scraping against an aluminum shed. “My father will hear of it if you graze me.”

The woman regarded him with a look that said _and then your father will hear that you’re a puss-ass whining bitch_ , but instead she said, serenely: “Not to fear, young man. I don’t make a habit of ‘grazing’ my customers.”

She looked to Harry and nodded. “I’ll be with you _in einer minute_.”

The boy also looked over at Harry. After appraising him up and down with pale blue eyes, his sinfully flower-like lips curled into a smirked. “Hello,” he said. “I’m Draco Malfoy. Who might you be? I know every Amish family this side of Pennsylvania and yet, I can’t ever recall seeing your face before. Are you by chance a Mennonite?”

Harry didn’t know what a Mennonite was, but the other boy said it with such clear mocking and derision that he instinctively curled up his fists in response and lifted his chin. “No,” he said. “I’m Harry Potter.”

Draco’s eyes went wide and met Harry’s.

“You mean...you mean _you’re_ Harry Potter?” said Draco, his face lighting up and his cool exterior vanishing for a brief moment. Harry shrugged and yawned. He was still a little tired and confused from the Benadryl, so honestly, his name could’ve gone either way at this point too.

“Yeah. I guess.”

The other boy cleared his throat loudly and shifted on his feet, clearly embarrassed by his temporary lack of cool. He extended a hand towards Harry.

“I’m pleased to make your acquaintance. And if you join the ranks of my kind, I’ll see to it that you only associate with the _highest_ calibre of Amish,” he said with an uppity smirk.

Harry stared at the boy’s hand in deep confusion, his face contorted. In the dim skylighting, the boy’s hand looked silky, like Jennifer Aniston’s hair in early seasons of _Friends_.

The Dursleys had forced Harry to watch the complete series of _Friends_ one summer so that they could explain he was “with his  _friends_ ” whenever asked why their bespectacled nephew hadn’t accompanied them to pool parties. They had realized, of course, that Harry’s presence at a pool party would have spurred stern lectures about fornication and the importance of chastity. But what they _hadn’t_ considered was that most TV shows also “glorified a shameful premarital lifestyle” that Harry was staunchly against.

Nevertheless, Harry had gained two critical pieces of knowledge from his _Friends_ -watching experience: one, that young people these days need to wear more clothes, and two, that he was a Monica. 

Harry realized he was staring at Draco’s hand and looked away awkwardly, shaking his head to clear his thoughts. This boy’s girl-hands were were somehow making his pants very uncomfortable.

“I...I think I can determine the highest calibre of Amish myself, thanks,” he said cooly. He simply couldn’t _trust_ someone whose hands resembled a woman’s hair, and besides, this boy had proven himself to be quite the Ross.

And Harry knew that Ross and Monica were _siblings_ , not lovers. 

Draco’s beady blue eyes narrowed and he sucked his teeth loudly.

“Very well,” he said briskly, “But don’t come crying to me when the Mafia returns. You’ll be begging for mercy when they’re at your door.”

“M-mafia?” said Harry, confused. But before he could ask questions, Draco had made a dramatic attempt to turn on his feet and angrily swirl away. Draco had forgotten, of course, that Sister Malkin was still busy tending to his pants. This resulted in an almost slow-motion descent from the stool he had been standing on as he crashed to the ground and bellowed, “MY. FATHER. WILL. HEAR. ABOUT. THIS.”

Sister Malkin briefly rolled her eyes as if to say, “ _It’s not my fault you forgot I was here, dumbass.”_

Harry suddenly decided that even a second longer with this Draco character would cause him to return to the SmartPhone Sea, an experience he had manager to avoid since learning of his true Amish fate. Without as much as a goodbye, he returned to the front of the store and decided to buy whatever random pre-made Amish clothes were available off the rack. This proved challenging, as he soon learned he was roughly the same size and shape of a 9-year-old girl. However, Brother Malkin was able to provide him with some starter Amish clothes from a bag labeled “Large Doll Attire.”

Harry left the store, happy with his purchases and content in his decision to avoid that Draco. To Harry, the boy just seemed like the type of person who would fart in your car and then leave it to stew in the afternoon heat. And Harry didn’t need that type of negativity in his new life, no siree!

As Harry approached the buggy, he found Hagrid sitting in the front seat, merrily awaiting his return. While Harry had been shopping for clothes, it appeared that Hagrid had done the rest of his shopping for him. The backseat was crammed full of things that Harry assumed were very important, including a brown bottle labeled “Virility Enhancer.” Indeed, it appeared that Hagrid _did_ know exactly what Harry needed!

“D’ya find anything good?” he asked as Harry gently placed the parcel on top of the pile.

Harry climbed in the buggy and replied, “Just some clothes, really...but I met this odd fellow named Draco Malfoy.” As Harry began to recant the whole story, Hagrid whipped the reins, and they began heading down the road.

When Harry was done explaining what had happened with Draco (minus the most awkward bits), Hagrid had an annoyed look on his face.

He sighed heavily, shaking the buggy, and noted, “I never did like them Malfoys...the wrong sort of Amish in my opinion. They’re more concerned with their buckles than their souls. Always too good for the hard-working folk like you and me.”

“But...how can they be Amish if they aren’t hard-working?” asked Harry, nonplussed.

Hagrid shrugged and replied, “Where there’s money, people tend to turn ignore indiscretions. Which is why I feel so safe leavin’ ye here with the Weasleys, cause money ain’t what you’re gonna find here!”

The buggy rounded the corner on a old, comfortable-looking farmhouse. Some red-headed kids around Harry’s age were placing laundry on a clothesline, miserable expressions on their faces. Normally Harry considered those with red hair to be directly descended from the devil, but somehow these people put him at ease.

“Yep,” said Hagrid happily, stopping the buggy at a wooden post on the edge of the property, “This is the Weasleys...the best Amish family around, if you ask me! Now I know they've only got seven kids, but Brother Weasley done a lot of good work in his life for the English folk, so I still think of them all in the highest regard.”

Hagrid helped Harry out of the buggy, immediately handing him a few loads of Amish supplies.

“You’ll be staying with the Weasleys for a little bit. Ye need a place to go until until ye find a wife and get yer own land...and who knows, ye might even find a wife _here_!” said Hagrid with a twinkle in his eye.


End file.
